


Falls Church

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: A man learns about life through love, food and wine.





	Falls Church

Drink it in. 

The server fumbled around like a young woman with opposable thumbs, and she couldn’t exactly find her way.   
. 

She wrapped her hair, a brunette with shades on underneath, but she moved in these heels like she walked on air. Sarah Arlington catered to the wealthy and the privileged because she grew up among these people. She wore tasteful makeup and lived off rote memory when she donned her server guise. She knew the menu from back to front and front to back. Shy Sarah, the Sarah who struggled through simple sentences, disappeared altogether when she played pickpocket.

Sarah’s daddy worked for the president. Joshua struggled with the idea of why Sarah needed to lift a finger, but she was his faithful work wife so he kept her around. She dumped dirty dishes in the basin and won people over with the finest wines. Joshua didn’t understand why Americans bothered with the drinking age. If adults failed to see the effects of a brain soaking up alcohol like a sponge, they need not be adults. 

“Fifty dollars.” Joshua caught a glimpse from Sarah as she flashed a smile. 

The chef placed an ongoing bet with the server she couldn’t make bank during the weekdays. The slow days, hectic and maddening as they were, let him relax on cruise control, and Joshua needed to catch his breath. He wore the crisp, white chef’s jacket with the black and white insignia of the Four Seasons Hotel. 

The first six years in the kitchen made him little more than a slave. As he’d slowly, painstakingly climbed the ranks and balanced a thousand things at once, Joshua Townsend, a black boy from London, went from dishwasher to proper chef. 

“She’s me.” Joshua tapped the motion sensor and washed his hands like a surgeon. His father, a cardiologist, taught him this technique. He counted through the bars of a song, careful to detail.

“No, she’s better looking,” said Luigi, giving the dishwasher a hand. He could not stay still and jumped in wherever he was needed. Joshua frowned at him, making a couple line cooks laugh. Luigi didn’t care. “You have an American wife.”

“You talk to any woman,” said Joshua, brushing honey butter on the dinner rolls. Luigi shrugged, neither confirming nor denying this, although nothing really needed to be said because Luigi went through women like the seasons. “Nothing more than a hello and a goodbye. She sliced the courgettes with paper thin precision and went on about the evening like it was nothing.” 

Luigi Ferro tossed him a large onion. “See what she does with this. And courgettes? It’s called zucchini.” 

After service, Joshua pulled the server aside. He placed a carton of six eggs, an array of mushrooms, an onion, and a lonely, slightly bruised courgette in a basket. Sarah turned curiously from Luigi to Joshua, adding this up in her head and stepping up to the challenge. She washed her hands, mirroring Joshua’s technique, who stood beside her and washed up again merely out of habit. 

“Buonasera,” said Luigi, slipping casually into Italian, fishing for a reaction. He got it. Sarah slipped into her sneakers and rolled her eyes at Luigi, She tied her hair back. The crew dissipated, tired at the end of the day. Luigi washed the produce and peeled the onion with a deft movement of the blade. “Sarah, where did you learn to cook?” 

“I started serving in a coffee house when I was fifteen.” Sarah played copycat with Joshua, chopping the onions and squash into hearty chunks, and she did not need anyone to tell her to add oil and butter to the frying pan. It sizzled. “When did you meet?” 

“Joss got lost in Italy when some cook told him to fetch a wheel of parmigiano.” Luigi pulled a face. Once upon a time, Joshua swore he’d live this careless mistake down, but he knew Luigi would remind of this when he was on his deathbed. “He’s English. Knows nothing.” 

“I’m your boss. It was Modena.” Joshua snapped his fingers at the mushrooms, and Sarah cleaned them, not sure what to do with this strange ingredient. “You don’t like fungi?” 

 

“Never used it,” said Sarah. She went with it and grated cheese Luigi offered her. “Is this parmigiano?” 

“Ha. No. Parmesan.” Joshua stared at her as she sliced the onion. Sarah let him correct her grip. “I sliced onions in Italy for three months. Things got interesting when we moved to slicing and dicing.” 

“Ooooh.” Luigi ran his fingers through the fine slices. 

“Yeah. I stood with this chatty Modenese boy who either could not or would not shut up.” Joshua snorted at Luigi as the Italian switched to colorful vocabulary in his native tongue, no doubt telling the chef in no uncertain terms what he thought. “Luigi was fourteen. I was nineteen.” 

“That’s amazing,” said Sarah, paying Luigi a compliment. Luigi’s grandmother ran the restaurant. He loved food, like so many Italians, and he ran with it and followed his dreams. “So you’ve known each other for how long?” 

“Fourteen years? Yeah?” Joshua sat on a chair and crossed his arms. Sarah created a zucchini frittata, playing it simple. They wanted her not to go crazy. Luigi helped her with a light hand here and there. 

“He taught me how to cook, so I taught him English.” Joshua explained this trade to many people.

He worked in a lot of kitchens, and some cooking jobs were better than others, but he forever crossed paths with Luigi. They had last worked together in a place called Nicholas in London. Joshua smiled, remembering a small something that changed his life. 

Luigi, acting like an enthusiast who brought contraband to the party, stepped away to grab a gift. One, a tall, slender paper bag, held wine. The other was nutella, two glass jars. “One homemade, one from a market. For Claire.” 

“That’s lovely. Trying to steal my wife?” Joshua shot him a look until his straight face broke into a smile. They explained this to Sarah, old friends from way back when. “Luigi introduced me to Claire. My wife. In 2010.” 

“Really?” Sarah sounded skeptical. 

Sarah cut the frittata like a pie and plated a piece for both of the chefs. Her attitude softened towards Luigi, though she never stayed angry for long. She put on a shy act for her patrons, yet Sarah got to the point where she learned stuff along the way, too, and she wasn’t a clueless girl who followed the rest of the sheep. 

“I asked her out,” said Luigi confidentially, remembering this encounter quite differently. Joshua hardly bothered to correct him anymore because there was no point. Joshua’s iPhone buzzed in his pocket. “Speak of the devil and she doth appear! Claire!” 

“Luigi says hello.” Joshua relayed the message. 

Claire answered with a scratchy hello. “Luigi Spaghetti owns me lira.” 

Luigi heard her over the receiver. “Signora Townsend, as I have told you before, countless times, the exchange happened in 1999, so I think I owe you nothing. It’s called the euro. Catch up.” 

 

“You live with us,” said Claire. “You forget this isn’t Italy, Luigi Spaghetti.” 

“No, signora, with your so-called ‘leader of the free world’, how can one forget?” Luigi spoke lightly, sipping old coffee. Luigi made no secret of his distaste for Americans burning themselves to the ground. 

“Where the hell are you people? We use the dollar,” pointed out Joshua, high- fiving Sarah. He stepped in before the never-ending pointless political debate started. Sarah, her mouth full, found leftover bread from the rush. 

Joshua, half paying attention to what went on around him, stepped into the large pantry. Most of the night crew had called it a night. Joshua drummed his fingers on the shelves, checking inventory because his mind never left this place. 

 

Claire usually did not stay up to wait for him to come home because she was a teacher. Joshua easily worked twelve hour shifts at least five times a week. Claire accepted she married the restaurant, whatever restaurant, when she tied the knot with a kitchen boy. When they decided to head to the States with no directional three years ago, she pounded the pavement with him. 

“He’s still Luigi Spaghetti?” Joshua liked when she stuck to these nicknames like glue. Luigi had served her spaghetti alla carbonara on Claire’s first trip to Italy. She’d been a chemistry student at Georgetown University. 

“Always.” Claire moved stuff in the background. 

“What’re you doing?” Joshua slid down the wall, resting for the first time that night. Light night or not, Joshua felt like he ran anywhere between a long sprint and a never-ending marathon. “What time is it?” 

“A quarter after eleven. I’m grading tests.” Claire shook a paper, laughing before she shared the punchline. “Let me read you what Zeke Whittaker wrote. It’s directed at you.” 

“Go for it.” Joshua, smiling sheepishly, pictured the overweight seventeen-year-old in a hoodie and jeans. Zeke loved Claire, and he’d fought to be in both her AP Chemistry I & II courses because Claire pushed him like an investment. 

“‘Slap an A on this. If I get an reward, tell your husband I want red velvet pancakes with cream cheese frosting, please and thank you.’” Claire’s pitch changed as she read this comment. 

It dripped with confidence. Zeke understood he was gifted. The kid rode on his arrogance, which Joshua found as a refreshing twist because young people expected to win a blue ribbon and whined if they did not all get a fair piece of the pie. Claire let this set in. 

Doubt slipped in when Joshua said nothing, and the dead air deflated her a little. “Are you still there? You don’t really have to do anything. Zeke’s a big boy.” 

 

“Does this mean I need to make a double batch of pancakes?” Joshua honestly stole the recipe from Claire’s no nonsense Southern hospitality grandmother. Three years ago, he had no idea what red velvet was. “If he gets into university, I’ll make him red velvet chip chip ones.” 

“Georgetown said yes.” Claire said this in a rush, and then her words came out slightly muffled, like she spoke with her hand slapped over her mouth. She cursed. 

“Claire! Did you open the acceptance without him?” Claire sounded far away, and he didn’t catch whatever she’d said. Joshua got to his feet. “That’s against the law to open someone else’s post, Claire.” 

“I couldn’t help it. You know they pack these folders even with a rejection letters?” Claire paced the bedroom, or so Joshua guessed this is what happened because she went in and out. “My old professor, Michael Easter, drafted an email to me. I mean, technically ... Joshua, come on.” 

“Zeke’s going to go insane.” Joshua grinned. 

“Right? Oh, hold on, that’s him. Hold on.” Claire switched the call and told them they were both on speaker. She paused, uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Ezekiel, what’re you doing? School tomorrow.” 

“Yeah. What’s your point? You’re up.” Zeke got really comfortable before he hedged himself, perhaps remembering he spoke with his teacher. He added this as an afterthought, “Dr. Townsend, ma’am. I’m going to bed.” 

“No. Wait.” Claire cursed again and inhaled deeply. 

Joshua waved good night to the others and headed out to his car as they waded through a strange silence and listened to each other breathe. Joshua hooked his iPhone to bluetooth and cruised down Pennsylvania Avenue. “Claire. How socially awkward were you in post-secondary before we met?” 

 

Zeke coughed as he burst out laughing. Claire adopted Ezekiel Whittaker as her son last year. With Joshua’s and Claire’s struggle with infertility treatments, she dove into her work at James Madison High School and latched onto Zeke as a life saver. Zeke’s mother, a single parent, worked as a nurse and balanced two jobs in Washington D.C. to put food on the table and did everything she could for the boy. 

“Ezekiel, when you step onto campus, you go straight to Doctor Easter and you tell him you question everything. Absolutely everything.” Claire spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “And get an espresso before midterms.” 

 

“Okay,” said Zeke, completely lost. He turned and addressed Joshua, hoping he could translate the cryptic girl speak. Claire dissolved into tears, so she was no help at all. “What’s she saying, chef? She’s weird lately.” 

“She’s pregnant. Sharing her body with two tiny humans.” Joshua shrugged as he melted into traffic. “Let me break this down for you. This fall, the two of you will share an odd inside jokes because you’re a Georgetown boy. Your mum’s gonna lose her mind.” 

 

“Joss,” said Claire sharply. 

“Sorry. Zeke.” Joshua placed Ezekiel on hold when the boy started screaming and swearing in his ear. “He’s freaking out. If that’s not worth it, Claire, I dunno what is. Well done, Dr. Townsend.” 

A few minutes later, Joshua turned into the drive and parked next to Claire’s Mazda. Claire met him at the door, waving her iPhone as she said they’d been on hold for five minutes. Joshua hung up. Claire stood there, dressed in her night things. Her blonde hair fell down her back. Joshua showed her two large jars of hazelnut spread. 

“Italian nutella. Luigi is gold.” Claire clapped her hands and and grabbed a spoon. She swore the spread tasted better than the American brand, and Luigi imported stuff in like a drug dealer. 

“This matters to you. You’re strange.” 

“You’re strange. Who haggles over olive oil? And oranges?” Claire scooped another spoonful and fed him. “If this isn’t Nonna Ferro in a glass jar, I don’t know what is.” 

Zeke called back, still riding off his high. “Why would people do drugs? This is … this is amazing. I heard there’s a rumor I might be valedictorian?” 

Claire snorted, another scoop before she sealed the jar and put it in the refrigerator. “Where’s your competition?” 

“Claire.” Joshua loved it whenever she dripped with straight honesty. 

She worked in the city at an average high school. The dropout rate stayed abysmal, and she didn’t really get an opportunity to break down science because kids did not really care. Joshua heard hilarious stories of blank stares, and contrary to popular opinion, she believed stupid questions existed. 

“Zeke. I’m proud of you.” She kept it short and sweet. The line went dead again after Zeke muttered his thanks. Claire headed upstairs. Joshua showered. He actually made it home at a decent hour on some weeknights. He claimed in bed with her and she drummed her fingers on his chest. They lay in the darkness, but she placed her hand underneath his chin and made him face her. “I love you. No matter what.” 

Joshua found her kiss underwhelming. “What else?” 

 

“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to distract him again. 

“Nothing means something.” Joshua had deciphered enough of what Zeke called girl speak to read between the lines and detected the worry in her voice. “Say it. Whatever it is.” 

Claire shrugged this off. “It was nothing.”

“Claire.” The cryptic, empty answer angered him to no end. 

“I went to a grocery store,” she said delicately, expecting him to fly off the handle at any moment. “And an old lady spotted me and asked why I with a pompous nigger who understands next to nothing.” 

“Wow.” Joshua mouthed this word because he did not know what to say. What could he say?

Five minutes later, interrupting them, Luigi deposited his necessities, speaking rapid Italian into his cell phone and carrying on a conversation with someone on the other end. They waved. Zeke said good night. Luigi, finding the hazelnut spread in the fridge door, made a tutting sound and wagged a disapproving finger at Claire. 

He placed it by the bread box. Joshua helped him put stuff away. Luigi nodded, a reply fired off. He asked Claire a question, in Italian. 

“Non parlo italiano.” I don’t speak Italian. Claire learned this and a few other simple sentences. 

Luigi sighed. “Are you resting?” 

Claire said nothing. 

“You are carrying the children of my adopted grandson,” said Luigi, still translating and perching himself on top of the pristine counter. 

“Let Nonna be your Italian grandmother.” Joshua made a light suggestion. 

Signora Giulia Ferro taught them not to order a cappuccino after ten in the morning because this was tacky, uncouth and rang this stupid foreigner as a tourist who knew no better, an it presented an eyesore on the Italian culture. Who wanted all that milk in their stomach when going to bed? 

“I am well.” Claire waited patiently for Luigi, although Luigi proved rather adept as the go-between and stayed ahead in the conversation. Luigi said, quite plainly, in English, this had not been what Nonna asked. “No, I’m not. I think I’m coming down with something.’ 

“A name. Giovanni and Raphael.” Luigi said nothing to his grandmother.

Claire shrugged like she didn’t control such a thing. “We’ll see.” 

Italy was six hours ahead of them, and Luigi said good morning to his grandmother every single day before he turned in for the night. Like many Italian boys, he stayed with his mother and his grandmother. At heart, he jumped into the deep end to discover who he was through food. 

Joshua loved how the playboy, the quintessential Italian, lived for football and family. They would indeed see a set of fraternal twins in weeks. Claire, a scientist, begged her midwife and physician not to tell her because few miracles remained in life. She saw a beauty in not nothing, downright celebrating it. 

“Maybe.” Joshua scribbled these down in the receipt book. Nonna, at peace with the silence for once, settled for this. Luigi fiddled with Joshua’s coffee station. Nonna went back to her legitimate grandson. 

“Zeke loves when you remind him of Jamie Oliver.” Claire patted Joshua on the arm. 

At the Four Seasons, they held family meal five nights a week. Joshua did not think this happened at other hotels. Luigi suggested it after they arrived, and the team freaked out over this custom. Before the cooks pounded through a night shift, they gathered at the table and filled the table with their own hearty creations. 

Joshua made dough by hand, enjoying the heat as he worked the dough. He placed this in the overhead microwave so it wuld double in size. He was off the following day, and the dough provided a distraction. Claire went to bed. In the quiet comfort of the kitchen, Luigi and Joshua made crepes and braided chocolate bread. 

“Flaky layers of intelligence.” Luigi tore off a piece for munching. They had two loaves, which meant one of these stayed at home and probably would not survive two days. “Run with this.” 

“It’s a trend,” said Joshua, who stole this from a blog. 

“Yes. But family meal. Your stample.” Luigi separated the ooey, gooey, butter layers. Neither of Claire’s jars got murdered in this experiment. Luigi reverted back to his childhood and cleaned the jar with a spoon. “I never had peanut butter until we came here. But nutella? Pantry sample.” 

“Breakfast or brunch for family meal.” Joshua stored the bread away. Really, he wanted Sarah to appreciate the simplicity of a humble egg. Luigi often asked him how he came home to jump into the madness Joshua wrapped the other loaf in the bread box. 

Luigi said good night. Joshua fell asleep in the shower and dragged himself into bed and passed out before his head hit the pillow.


End file.
